


Penance

by ToujoursNoir



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29511966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToujoursNoir/pseuds/ToujoursNoir
Summary: War heroine Hermione Granger has lost something important and finds it in an unexpected place.Inspired by Prompt 3: my date walked out so this meal has already been paid for; mind joining me?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 7
Kudos: 115





	1. Antipasti

_As Isolt watched, James finished marking the graves he had dug by hand, then picked up the two broken –_

“Hey sorry I’m late; traffic was crazy!” 

Hermione Granger, or ‘Harriet Graham’ as stated in the reservation book, looks up. 

It isn’t for her. She keeps her head up, pretending to look for a clock among the beige and gold decorations. Once a thief of it, and yet still a slave to it in the end, Hermione Granger doesn’t need a device to help her tell the time. 

Hours had turned into minutes every time a homework deadline or an exam approached; speeding up during the rare moments she, Harry, and Ron could mess around in the castle. The three of them probably aged a decade in the wilderness; exacerbated by the seconds they counted before Ron had returned to them. 

Everyone says time seemed to pass in a flash since they broke into Gringotts. It’s a mystery to her how they felt that way, when it had come to halt for her the moment they were captured. Caught in a loop, much like how her eyes keep going over the sentence “The undocumented incidents in Ilvermorny remain a mystery” now. 

And even without a watch, the shift of glances from pitiful to annoyed from the waiter tells her it’s enough. Closing the well-thumbed book on the page, she calls for the bill.

Hermione Granger has been stood up. 

She smiles, relieved that it’s happened in the muggle world, in which Harriet Graham wasn’t a war heroine, the Brightest Witch of Her Age, or anything remarkable. 

What she did not expect was the waiter coming back empty handed. 

“Miss? It’s been taken care of,” he says with a grin so wide she guesses he, too, has been taken care of with a generous tip. 

All she could see of her ‘benefactor’ is blond and dark locks covering the back of their head. Clutching her wand in her bag, she steps towards the private booth in the corner. 

“Ma’am?” 

And on the cushioned chair sits Narcissa Malfoy, exuding an air of ease that indicates she’s frequented muggle establishments like this her entire life. 

“Oh, Narcissa is fine, Miss Granger,” she waves away the formality. “Good evening.” 

“Good evening, Mrs Malfoy,” she waves back awkwardly. “Thanks for the drink.” 

“It was my pleasure. I trust you had a pleasant one?” Blue eyes appraises her while ruby lips sip from a wine glass. 

“I uh – I did,” she stammers. “And you?” 

“Not quite as great as yours, I’m afraid. My date has just walked out.” 

While she admires the poise the woman manages to maintain despite being _left in a restaurant full of other people_ and _someone walked out on Narcissa Malfoy?_ , her body is determined to counter Mrs Malfoy’s grace as much as possible. She wills her body to _stop_ fidgeting as she passes on her apologies.

“Don’t be – the meal has already been paid for, so more fool them,” Narcissa gestures to a chair. “I don’t wish to be presumptuous, but have you other plans this evening?” 

She shakes her head.

“Would you mind joining me? I don’t care to be seen attempting a meal meant for two, and I’m not for wasting food.” 

Remembering their times of near starvation when on the run, Hermione complies. Habit reminds her to keep her bag close to her right, however.

Gesturing for the waiter to leave, Narcissa pours Hermione a glass and pulls her chair closer to the table. “You have my gratitude, Miss Granger,” she says, “I had wanted to approach you earlier, but you seemed engrossed.” 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Malfoy.” _But who would expect to see you here?_

“No apologies necessary,” Narcissa brushes it off. “What I am curious about, however, is what reading material had captured your focus so fully?” 

“It’s about Ilvermorny.” 

“Ah, a fascinating place.” Narcissa nods. “Are you intrigued because of its co-founder?” 

_Am I intrigued beca –_

This was a bad idea. She can’t believe she’s having _a drink_ with a Malfoy nee _Black_ , whose son _tormented_ them every chance he had, whose husband gave an eleven year old girl a cursed diary among god knows what else, whose _sister_ had – and who just, who’s _sitting_ in a _muggle_ restaurant making assumptions about – 

“Look,” she says with barely disguised fury, “just because I’m a muggle, it doesn’t mean – 

“Ma’am?” 

“Ladies?” 

She shuts her mouth, cheeks heating up from Narcissa’s stare; the older witch’s widened eyes and slightly parted lips doing _nothing_ to placate her. 

They stay still as the dishes are served, and a _steak_ is set in front of her. She realises she’s forgotten to tell Mrs Malfoy that she’s…and it’s not like she wants to be here anyway, so. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Malfoy, I’m not that hungr –” 

To find the plate deftly lifted away from her; a steaming bowl of soup in its place. 

“Please don’t worry about it, Miss Granger,” Narcissa says. “I should be the one apologising. Draco loves steaks and I hear it’s to die for here, so I’ve ordered it out of habit.” 

Before she could insist that she had to leave, a smaller plate with neatly sliced strips and perfectly portioned sides is placed gently next to the soup. 

“I’ve never been able to finish one myself, and I thought you might want to share it,” Narcissa mutters, resting her cutlery on her own plate, “that is, if you are still willing to break bread with me.”

“But please don’t let me stop you from leaving,” the older woman adds wryly, keeping her eyes down. “It certainly won’t be the first time tonight.” 

She doesn’t know how, or why, but she does nod and picks up her fork. 

And for once in a long time, she tucks in eagerly after hearing Narcissa’s hum of approval. 

“You were saying something about Ilvermorny?” Narcissa asks. “Have you had a chance to visit?” 

She shook her head. “We – a few of us planned to, but something came up.” 

“That’s rather unfortunate,” Narcissa commiserates, “the papers said something about you being in North America for a short while?” 

“Yeah, I just – I barely remember it.” 

Narcissa nods in understanding, and they continue their meal in silence. 

She really doesn’t remember much – the curse had spread so quickly and unexpectedly that she was in a delirium by the time they landed in Boston. She remembers her cheeks being wet constantly; whether it was from rain, sweat, or tears of Harry, Ron, and Ginny as they held her. Fervent promises from Harry that they would come back for a proper tour of the school _if you could hang on just a little bit longer,_ please _, Hermione;_ a teary laugh from Ginny that accompanied _fine, we don’t need to visit all the broomstick shops; there’s no need to fake a near-death experience, Merlin_. 

And Ron, sweet Ron who never seemed to have much to say when under distress, held her other hand wordlessly and didn’t let go until they were back in London. She never remembers whether she had managed to hug him fully before the procedure. 

She hopes she did; she owed him that much. 

“Miss Granger?” 

Startled, she drops her fork. The tines hit the stem of the wine glass, and as it tilts to the left, she moves to grab it and – 

_Oh, god._

Red spreads over the tablecloth and all she hears is the thudding of her heartbeat, the rush of blood to her ears, and the impending horror of Narcissa Malfoy – 

\-- of Narcissa Malfoy gripping her left shoulder so tightly it _hurt_ . She moves her eyes away from the red, red, red spillage and on to ruby red lips mouthing “Hermione, it’s _okay._ ” 

“You needn’t stop the spill with your wand,” Narcissa whispers, the intensity of her voice leading Hermione to think maybe she was just as breathless. “Lower your arm, they’re coming – there you go.”

Numb with relief, she watches them clear the table, being reminded of just how _good_ a liar Narcissa Malfoy is, seeing that she was helping her tuck a half _empty_ sleeve under the table. 

Neither of them has much of an appetite after. She smiles gratefully at the waiters and waitresses, all of whom encourage her to “Come back soon, Miss Graham!” despite the mishap. 

Droplets of rain fall on her face, and she stays at the doorway, willing it to wash away her exhaustion. 

It stops as soon as her eyes shut, and Narcissa Malfoy appears at her left.

“What is it?” she isn’t sure she could take any more surprises tonight. 

“Why, it’s an umbrella, Miss Granger,” Narcissa responds with a small smile. “I believe you have heard of it.” 

“Mrs Malfoy,” she sighs. 

“When I asked about the book and James Steward, it wasn’t because he and you are muggles. It was about being thrown into a world in which you didn’t quite belong, where some of its inhabitants fought actively to keep you _out_ of it, and still finding the will to go on. And flourish.” 

“Oh.” 

“Merlin knows we could all do with a little more hope and courage in the new world, Miss Granger,” Narcissa continues, staring out at the rain. “Maybe they will come more easily when we stand next to those who, against all odds and challenges, ushered it in.” 

She clears her throat. “Mrs Malfoy?” 

“Miss Granger.” 

“There’s a bookshop a few blocks away from here – there are some that I believe would suit you.” 

When Narcissa looks at her, she knows she’s made the right decision.


	2. Primi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa gets stood up yet again.

“Any pain in the last few days?” 

The tip of the wand rubs over her wound, and she hisses. “There is _now._ ”

“Sorry,” Andromeda apologises, running her thumb over the reddened area -- a gesture Hermione doesn’t think is offered to all of Andi’s patients. 

“It’s healing really well, we can shift these appointments to once a fortnight,” Andi continues but doesn’t let go just yet. Hermione takes a deep breath and braces herself for what comes next. 

“That is -- unless you want to stick to our current schedule?” 

There it is. She tries to extract her arm away from Andi’s hold, but Merlin the woman is strong when she wants to be.

“Once a fortnight is fine, thanks.” 

“ _Hermione.”_

_“Andi.”_

Andi sighs and finally relents. “Look, I’m not saying you should...it’s just that it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone.” 

“I’m fine, really -- it’s done, right?” she tucks in her sleeve and packs up. “It’s just a really busy week at work; we’ve got to start enforcing the new laws, and the Ministry isn’t making it any easier by restricting our funds, and --” 

She looks up when a hand rests on her shoulder; Andromeda’s expression saying it all. 

“I’ll look into it, okay?” 

She turns to the door, already knowing what Andi thinks of her promise. 

* * *

“Hey, you can’t go in there, this is a private off -- ” 

She reaches for her wand, heart racing and relieved she’s kept up with her dueling practices.   
  


“So, it _is_ you after all, Hermione Granger,” The intruding wizard says, enunciating her name in the same tone as the slur that has been banned after the war. 

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” she returns coolly. 

“Oh no, no pleasure at all, believe me,” he snarls, throwing a piece of parchment on her desk. “This is your doing, I gather?” 

“This is the latest legislation passed unanimously by the Wizengamot.” 

“Silence! _Passed unanimously by the Wizengamot_ ; why a few decades ago you muggles wouldn’t even have known magic from your --” 

The arrival of two other wizards -- aurors arranged by Harry and Ron, she’s sure of it -- interrupts the rant. “You need to leave now.” 

“Get your hands off me, you Ministry toads,” he shoves away their wands and seizes the parchment from her desk. “This isn’t over, _girl_. There are more of us, and no matter what praises they sing of you, you’re not invincible.

“I strongly suggest you stop your crusade, or you'll live to regret it.” 

She keeps her expression neutral as she stares at him in return, resisting the urge to challenge him to _make her_. It isn’t until they’ve left the building when she slumps into her chair, waving her assistant off. Her second round of breathing technique is disrupted by taps on the window, and she groans. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Harry --” 

Only the owl doesn’t belong to Harry, or anyone she knows. It rubs its feathers against her hand affectionately, retrieves the treats from her fingers, and flies off. 

_Miss Granger --_

_Allow me to thank you for the lovely evening last week; the bookshop was certainly a delightful find. I wonder if you’ve had a chance to read the book we purchased? I must say I’m rather intrigued by what I have perused so far, and it may just keep me company at the restaurant tonight if the need arises._

_Yours_

_Narcissa_

She frowns, tapping her finger. _If the need arises_? Surely Mrs Malfoy wasn’t planning to be stood up again, delicious as the food was. She picks up her quill to return the letter. 

Five hours, multiple interruptions of ‘urgent tasks’, and constant reassurances to those who heard about the incident in her office later, Hermione gives up. 

She leaves her robe in her office and tells her assistant she won’t be returning for the night. 

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy has the patient of a saint, she is sure of this. 

That, or Mrs Malfoy is playing some very strange game of cat-and-mouse with whoever’s bankrolling these lascivious meals. Her mind drifts towards whether being stood up can be a kink -- 

“Miss Granger,” Mrs Malfoy says, handing her yet another plate of food. Since their third or fourth meal, Hermione has stopped ordering soups, salads, or anything that can be eaten with just a piece of cutlery. Or rather, Narcissa has banned her from touching the menu, saying it would be a waste to have anything less than the best when the meals are already paid for. 

It’s also one of the few proper meals she eats each week. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she mutters, quietly relishing the buttery warmth and softness as she bites into a freshly baked dinner roll. 

“I most certainly have to share my carbs,” Mrs Malfoy replies, now buttering her own half of the bun. “You underestimate the effect it has on the hips of a woman my age. You, on the other hand,” the older witch tuts and spares her a critical glance, “are somehow growing thinner, if that’s possible.” 

She swallows quickly and opens her mouth to protest; that Narcissa Malfoy looks _nothing like_ what she just described, that she was just _fine_ , until she sees Narcissa’s expression when she tucks into her meal. 

There’s no end to the knowledge that Hermione has learned, no skill too difficult for her to have mastered, no stories too ugly or beautiful for her -- the war heroine -- to have heard and experienced. 

And yet, the simple facial expressions of Narcissa Malfoy as they adventure in the muggle world just _captivates_ and confounds her.

The first time she caught it was in a cinema -- she had convinced Mrs Malfoy that _Practical Magic_ could be an informative documentary of sorts, appealing to the thirst for knowledge they share. Truth be told, Hermione only chose the re-run because she had missed it two years ago. 

And then she was aptly punished for lying 40 minutes into it, at her twelfth glance to check if the other witch was enjoying the movie.

Tears -- glistening in the dark room -- were flowing down the cheeks of Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione looks on, horrified, as Narcissa made no attempt to wipe them. Instead, her eyes were locked to the screen, watching the Owens sisters coming together for each other. 

And when she reaches over awkwardly to pass Narcissa her handkerchief, the witch lifts her hand from the armrest and grips her hand instead. Hermione resists the impulse to pat the tears herself, and stays put, regretting that it had taken her so long -- _too long_ \-- to realise they had both lost something precious in the war. 

Of course, the older witch wouldn’t admit what had happened afterwards, telling Hermione the movie was _awfully inaccurate_ , followed by _I think we should go for something unrelated to magic next week, Miss Granger -- Merlin knows whether you still remember._

If Narcissa only knew. 

She does acquiesce, however, and one of their next outings is the National History Museum. The marvel on Narcissa’s face when seeing the Goodwill Moon rock and lunar meteorites takes Hermione back to the time she watched the moon landing on the Discovery Channel, long before she found the wonders of the wizarding kind. 

She spends a hefty sum on books on space missions the same evening, insisting to Narcissa it’s her treat for dinner. Narcissa accepts them with a smile, reaching out to carry Hermione’s bag of books along with hers. 

Another week brings them to a shop full of ornaments; Narcissa leaning over her shoulder as she shows her the workings of a music box. A sweet scent she can’t begin to describe surrounds her, something floral and _safe_ and -- 

“Miss Granger?” 

She clears her throat and gives Mrs Malfoy her attention. 

“What is this?” The older witch asks, holding a transparent sphere. 

“Why that, Mrs Malfoy, is how muggles change the weather.” 

She gently lifts it from Narcissa’s hands, and proceeds to give the snow globe a vigorous _shake._

The _laughter_ coming from Narcissa makes her wonder whether she would get away with that in the restaurant, her mind already set on recreating it. 

For now, however, she’s content to just join in.

“And your plans for this weekend, Miss Granger?” Moments later, they leave the store with music boxes and snow globes tucked securely in heavy paper bags. Narcissa puts up the umbrella over them, guiding Hermione to a hidden apparition point. 

“I’m afraid I won't be available,” she replies, focusing on the ground.

“Hmm. Maybe someday you will join us -- I do hope what’s occupying you is at least some form of self-care, and not more work.” 

Hermione doesn’t respond.


	3. Secondi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No food, only wine -- but they do share a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck with this so far, thank you :). This chapter is a bit shorter than the rest, but the next one should make up for it.

“It is with the utmost pleasure and pride that Hogwarts welcomes those who fought valiantly in the war,” Professor McGonagall’s voice booms over the Great Hall. 

She doesn’t join the applause, bowing her head with a smile instead. The second anniversary of Voldemort’s demise is as well attended as the first, and the interaction between the Slytherins and those from the other houses seems a little easier. 

The increasingly boisterous celebration affords her an opportunity to escape, and she heads to the Black Lake. She’s done as the Ministry and Professor McGonagall requested; in return, they too have kept their end of the agreement: all of those who approached her knew what, and what to _not_ ask. 

Her cheeks ache from the continuous smiling, and yet as soon as she descends the stairs, she can’t stop herself from grinning widely at the sight.

Narcissa Malfoy is sitting on the ground, surrounded by various bottles and swaying to some silent tune. 

“Hermione!” Narcissa waves, and Merlin is the witch _sloshed._ “Took you long enough!” 

She suppresses another grin and accepts a glass that floats to her. She _was_ wondering where the ‘top notch wines’, as Ron gushed about, went. 

“When did you leave the Hall?” 

“Oh, who remembers,” Narcissa says. A few seconds lapse before she continues:”As soon as McGonagall started to spout praises about how heroic acts don’t have to come from heroes or...you know the rest, I’m sure.” 

“I do.” 

“It seems that you aren’t in a mood to celebrate either, Miss Granger,” her tone implying that she may not be as intoxicated as she appears.

Hermione shrugs. “You’re here.” 

“Only so Draco has a proper reason to attend it,” Narcissa says, tracing the clouds with her wand. “I am indeed grateful to Mr Potter for helping him step out from his father’s shadow.” 

Her heart skips a beat at the mention of the Malfoy patriarch. She gulps down her prosecco, the tartness giving her a reason to cringe a little. “And how is Mr Malfoy?” 

“I haven’t a clue -- I do hope, however, that his bloody mistresses are costing him a bloody fortune.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Haven't you heard?” Narcissa turns to her, cheeks flushed. “Lucius Malfoy left the country as soon as he received a pardon; left us for _peacocks_.”

“Oh don’t worry about it,” she adds, seeing Hermione’s expression, “I made sure he left enough -- more than enough -- to fund our lavish dinners.” 

“So you -- you’ve been, all this while, you’ve been stood up by --” 

At Narcissa’s wink, she lets out a laughter that reaches the waters. 

“I can’t thank you enough for the company these past few months,” Narcissa says in a wistful tone, looking down at her glass. “I’ve certainly learned a lot about the...non-magical world, and it’s a fascinating one.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” Hermione replies. “If anything, Mrs Malfoy, I -- 

“When I first started learning about the wizarding world, it was fun to compare how things worked. The science and magic, the shared or mutually exclusive properties, and how they just exist parallel to each other.” 

She feels Narcissa moving closer to her, and refills their glasses. 

“After I met Harry and Ron, I just...I didn’t have time. If I wanted to do well in Hogwarts, to help Harry, I couldn’t let myself be distracted,” she says quietly. “Before I realised it, I had forgotten more than I had learned. Grew impatient with the ways of...my family. Turned my back on the world into which I was born."

She smiles weakly when Narcissa’s head shakes _no._

“You didn't turn your back on anything, Hermione. If anything, you were were _brave_. What you went through, all those years when you were still _children_ \--” 

“ _You_ were brave, Narcissa,” she says with equal conviction, “there’s a reason they invited you here. You saved us, saved Harry.” 

“I was not,” Narcissa’s voice quivers. “My cowardice was -- when you were at your bravest. Even at the restaurant, you could have thrown a drink in my face, performed Unforgivables on me, and I still would have deserved it. 

"It's a wonder how you're so accepting of the price you had to pay, Hermione." 

Perhaps the alcohol has dulled her senses; perhaps it’s time she lends a voice to it; she doesn’t know. She does say it in a whisper, hoping Narcissa would -- and wouldn’t -- catch it: “I accept it because it's penance.” 

“Pen-- Hermione, what could you _possibly_ be punished for?” 

She thought she had seen it all: the tears, the fascination, the incredulity and indulgence at her silly antics, and the _blank_ expression on Narcissa’s face when she was lying on dirt and grime on the stones of Malfoy manor.

But she doesn’t want this. She does _not_ want to see _understanding, empathy, more tears_ that adorn the other witch as she tells her how she robbed her parents of their memories, snatched away their free will with a few flicks of her wand, betraying them with what they felt she was _blessed_ with, was proud of her for. 

She begs Narcissa to stop talking, to stop telling her about acts of desperation during wars, about people who had done worse, about _forgiveness_. 

She shrinks away from the witch’s attempt to embrace her when she tells Narcissa about the botched effort to return her parents’ memories to them, to touch her in any way, preferring to experience _anything_ else, including _that moment_ , than this. 

Through her wails, she calls for Harry and Ron.

What should have been a celebration for the golden trio ended similarly to that of their Boston trip. 

The next morning, all hell breaks loose. 


	4. Dolci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione Granger doesn't want anything.

Hermione Granger is everywhere. 

Her youthful face, surrounded by curls, graces the front page of the Daily Prophet, other tabloid papers, even the _Quibbler_ , for days in a row. 

It’s all anyone can talk about, and it vexes Narcissa Malfoy to no end that the witch is everywhere except for where she needs her. 

Slamming her hand in frustration, she flings the latest copy of The Daily Prophet on the table. 

**GRANGER DANGER: ‘HERMOODY’ IN THE MAKING?**

The thinly veiled hit piece, but an extremely well written one, implies that _Miss Granger_ is looking to change the ways and workings of the wizarding world, starting with new laws for the protection of magical creatures. The article even has quotes from ‘expert healers’, stating how extreme injury and trauma can re-shape the character of someone.

Turn them into someone overzealous, just like it did Alastor Moody. 

She picks up her quill and writes a terse letter to the Investigation Department, questioning their ability to locate the leak -- 

_Stop, Narcissa. Think._

Her family didn’t survive the Dark Lord’s stay at Malfoy Manor by behaving rashly. 

No. She’ll _go_ to the Ministry instead. 

* * *

“Mrs Malfoy, _please_ , I have nothing for you,” Harry says exasperatedly, his hand moving to his forehead. 

“Good morning to you too, Mr Potter,” she says, “And for the third time, I know you do.”

“And before you tell me -- _again_ \-- that Miss Granger just wants to be left alone,” she holds up her hand to stop Harry, “I trust we share two priorities: her wellbeing, and her reputation. I can help with both.” 

“You _know_ who leaked the incident at the Lake?” 

“I do not -- but I can give you enough information. Before we begin,” she gestures to the door, only continuing when Harry impatiently locks it and casts a _muffliato_ over the room.

“Prior to the anniversary, I’ve only heard rumblings about a nameless group. Someone has been keeping an eye on Miss Granger ever since she advocated for magical creatures to be called magical beings.”

“And you _heard_ this by --?” Harry asks.

“Don’t be foolish, Mr Potter; wouldn’t I have already known who they are if I _were_ one of them? This is hardly _Dumbledore’s Army_ ,” she sneers, ignoring the way Harry bristles at the insinuation. “They have an almost endless amount of resources and patience, even I’ve only just come to understand that.” 

“So you just sat on this information for how long?” 

“Since your last trip, and while I did _sit,_ it was still a lot more than you could have done, Mr Potter,” she says. “Tell me, did Miss Granger mention anything about a blind date?”

Realisation hits Harry’s face. 

“That was...them?” 

“They certainly know better than to attack a war heroine through her loss and sacrifice,” she affirms. “Alerting the tabloids to her injury using some frivolous issue, like getting stood up, was much cleverer, don’t you think?” 

“So the anniversary --” 

“As I said, I did not know how wide their circle was. And what happened at the Lake, unfortunately, was even better than they could have ever imagined.”

“What happened that evening, anyway?” Harry blurts. She smiles, mildly surprised at how long he has been able to resist asking her this question.

“That is between Miss Granger and me, Mr Potter,” she stands, brushing a hand over her robe. “Now that we’re on this topic: our other priority.” 

At Harry’s hesitation, she pushes: “Based on what I’ve just told you, I believe I have gained your confidence, have I not?” 

“Give me a few days,” Harry mutters. 

She relents, moving to the door.

“Mrs Malfoy?” 

She turns around, and their eyes meet. 

“Please.” 

Narcissa Malfoy nods. 

* * *

“Dippy, another pepper-up potion, please.” 

Ignoring the elf’s concerned look, she finishes vial in one mouthful and asks: “Is everything ready?” 

“Yes, Mistress -- Dippy has packed clothes, the books Mistress needs, the candles, and ingredients.” 

“Hmm -- show me the ingredients, please.” It isn’t as if she could rest while she waits for her owl to return, anyway. 

It shows up at midnight, another vial clutched in its talons. 

_Cissa --_

_I hope you know what you’re doing._

_More and more, I wonder how long we have to keep paying for the sins of this family._

_\- A_

The parchment joins the stack of well-wishes, among them McGonagall’s explanation of why they failed and an outright threat that betrays how deeply she cares for her ex-student.

A familiar roar at the fireplace tells her it’s time. Despite all of the training and battle scars they carry, the nervous posture and expression of the two aurors remind Narcissa of Draco’s first farewell at Platform 9 ¾. 

She nods to Dippy, mouthing the lie she’s taught the elf. Just in case they don’t get back in time before Draco notices. 

“Good evening, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley. Shall we?” 

* * *

There’s nothing but the chirp of birds, and her exhausted state welcomes the warm weather and mid-morning sun. It’s a quiet neighbourhood, and she takes the opportunity to run through the ritual again. 

...to find herself jerking awake at the arrival of a bus. 

“Thanks, love.” _That would be Mr Granger._ “Can’t imagine what we’d do without you.” 

“It’s quite alright Mr Wilkins -- let’s get in before Mrs Wilkins starts to miss us.” 

Relief floods through her. The young witch is dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans -- a far cry from her usual outfits in their world -- and yet she looks as lovely as ever. 

“Narcissa!” 

Her smile grows wider at the familiarity. 

“Is this a friend of yours, dear?” 

“Oh, uhm, just let me --” 

She gently retrieves the bags from Hermione, and holds out her hand. “Narcissa Black. You must be Mr Wilkins. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you from --” 

Salazar _smite_ her for forgetting -- 

“Pleasure to meet you, Madam Black, and don’t you believe everything Harriet says!” The man catches her hand with a grin. “Sometimes we worry if we’re living up to her praises!” 

“Don’t we all, Mr Wilkins.” She throws a smile at the young witch, but Hermione looks away. 

“Well, would you like to come in for a cup of tea? Where did you say you were from again?” 

That, she could answer. They make their way to a cosy flat, Hermoine keeping her distance and avoiding eye contact.

  
  


“Harriet’s been an absolute darling,” Mrs Granger says as they move from the kitchen to the lounge, “my memory’s been failing me the past months -- the tests keep coming back inconclusive, but the doctors suspect it’s early onset Alzheimer’s.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Wilkins,” she says. “Harriet comes every weekend, I gather?” 

“Yes, even after that awful accident. She really is like the daughter we wish we had.” 

She looks quickly at Hermione’s direction, and just as she predicted, the witch has stopped mid-wipe. 

“Mr Wilkins?” Hermione clears her throat. “Did you want me to look at the leaky pipe in the bathroom?” 

“Oh yes, dear -- where’s my memory gone as well.” 

The room goes silent with the implication, before Mrs Granger breaks it: “Forgive me for asking, Madam Black -- are you perhaps a member of Harriet’s family?” 

“We’re...close, Mrs Wilkins, but not related by blood, no.”

“Oh,” Mrs Granger seems disappointed, “I just -- worry for her. She was here every weekend, and now she’s here everyday. She seems glad to be around us, but I can’t help but notice...there’s a sorrow she carries with her.”

“We think the world of her, and are here for her, of course,” her voice drops to a whisper, “but with my disease -- sometimes Wendell loses sleep on who else will watch out for her.” 

“Oh dear, Madam Black -- I didn’t mean to upset you.” A handkerchief -- similar to the one she received in the cinema a lifetime ago -- is pressed into her hands. “Come now, surely things will work out.” 

“They will, Mrs Wilkins,” she says, “I swear on it.” 

* * *

The door shuts. 

“Hermione, I --” 

“You have _no right,_ ” the younger witch hisses, “what made you think you could do _this_? Show up and invade my --” 

“Your _family_ time?” she nearly crumbles at the _hurt_ on Hermione’s face when she says that, and wills herself to soldier on: “Hermione, you disappeared without a word! And what’s this; some sort of self-flagellation? Living right next door, playing pretend with -- ” 

“I pretend _nothing_! I _forget_ nothing. I'm -- I'm not entertaining the notion that I'm theirs." 

She gasps. 

All the anger seems to have left Hermione as the witch slides to the floor, deflated. “I lost the right to be their daughter the moment I made that decision.”

“Narcissa," Hermione pleads to her, rubbing her face. "I’m grateful for whatever you’ve done for me.” So Mr Potter _has_ written to her about the character assassination. “And I cherish our... whatever we had, truly, but I -- I just can’t.” 

“You _can_ , Hermione, I’m here to tell you how.” 

Hermione looks up. 

“Are you sure this is why it backfired?” 

“That’s what Cygnus Black wrote, and McGonagall as well as the healers we consulted confirmed as much,” she reassures Hermione. “As your curse bore the blood of the Black, we should be able to undo it with the blood of mine and Andromeda’s.”   
  


“And my parents’ memories will be restored.”

“And your parents’ memories will be restored.” 

“It can’t be that simple,” Hermione says, eyes begging her to tell her otherwise. 

“It isn’t simple, Hermione -- the ritual is complicated, and we can’t stop without doing permanent damage. But nobody's discovered this because our books weren’t available to the public.” 

“When do we do this?” 

Aware that Hermione probably still has concerns, she tells the younger witch to spend the next day with the Grangers.

As her head falls on to Hermione’s pillow -- not even the nagging suspicion of how Black rituals always seemed to have some sort of catch could keep her awake -- the last thing she sees is a copy of _Ilvermorny: A History_ on the table. 

She should have stayed awake. 

Should have expected nothing less from her _cursed_ family, should have heeded Andromeda’s words of caution. 

Then they wouldn’t be here, stuck in the circle for the seventh hour, almost collapsing from exhaustion and dehydration. She was right, however, that it would affect Hermione a lot more than it would her, and knows that Hermione is holding on by sheer willpower. 

“Narcissa,” Hermione half-coughs, “take me through it again.” 

She complies. 

“The witch who cast the spell,” Hermione mutters for the hundredth time, “the wand that was used, the blood that flowed through her veins, the curse that was bestowed…

“Narcissa?” 

“Hmm?” 

“What if the curse was never lifted from me?” 

She shakes her head. “Andi confirmed it herself with Massachusetts.” 

“Massachusetts, Massachusetts --” Hermione’s increasingly high pitch is starting to worry her. “As Isolt watched…” 

“Hermione?”

“Massachusetts...as Isolt watched, James finished -- finished.” 

“Hermione, let’s stop. We’ll find another way.” 

“James finished marking the graves he had dug by hand, and picked up the two broken --” 

“Hermione!”

“...dug by hand, and picked up the two broken…Narcissa.

“I know what’s missing.”   
  


  
She throws up from the sudden apparition, falling to her side after her stomach is emptied. But the crisp air clears her head in an instant, and she sees stars.

Literal stars. 

“...marking the graves he had dug by hand, and picked up the two broken…” 

“Hermione?”

“...dug by hand...two broken…”

She rushes to the younger witch, grasps her shoulders to stop her from further scratching and bleeding her knuckles -- to be pushed back by a strength she never knew Hermione had. 

Looking around frantically for someone -- anyone, _anything_ \-- she finds a stone half-buried in the ground.

_Here lies Dobb --_

She joins Hermione in the search. 

Sweat is dripping onto _red, red, red_ sand before her sore fingers hit metal. 

“I found it!” She yells as she frees Bellatrix’s knife from the ground. Seeming to recognise her blood, magic flows from the knife to her hand, cleansing and healing all the wounds it finds. 

“Hermione, here, we can head back now,” she huffs, kneeling beside the younger witch. Hermione glances at the tool, a look of recognition appearing on her face -- 

\-- and returns to her task.

“...dug...two broken…” 

“Hermione, you can stop now.” 

“I haven’t...dug...two broken...I haven’t found it.”

“It’s right here!” She shoves the knife right in front of Hermione’s face. 

“I haven’t...haven’t found. Two broken...” 

Her blood runs cold. 

_“Hermione_ ,” she half closes her eyes and holds her breath, preparing for her worst fear. “What haven’t you found?” 

“My arm.” 

For the first time in days, she’s never felt so alert, so much magic, and so _powerless_. 

“My arm, my arm, where’s my arm?” 

As Hermione continues to beg for her lost limb, crying _I'll never do it again_ , she sobs quietly into her hand, even when she is certain the younger witch can no longer hear or see anything. 

Even as the first light of the day creeps up the shore. 

“Hermione?” Someone’s running towards them along the beach. “Hermione, what are you doing here?”

_Oh thank_ Merlin.

* * *

She’s sick again. 

Playtime with Peter is cancelled, and no school for her today. 

She does, however, get all the stories she wants from mummy and daddy. Mummy doesn’t seem to mind getting sick too, stroking her hair and holding her close. 

“Hermione?” 

She resists the call, snuggling more tightly into the warmth. 

“Hermione, it’s okay -- you can open your eyes, it’s really us.” 

After much hesitation, she finally does.

And it is. 

“Mum, dad,” her voice hoarse. She didn’t -- never thought she’d be able to utter these words again. 

So she repeats it. 

And hears her name in return.

Again and again.  
  
  


  
  


All of them leave after a few cups of tea; with Andi insisting that she stay in bed and Ginny promising to send an owl to Kingsley. 

She maintains upright, however, until a familiar figure steps into her room. 

"I have to return home soon," Narcissa says, sitting on the chair beside her bed. "Draco's probably worried sick, despite all the reassurances they gave him." 

Before she parts her lips to express her gratitude, a finger is placed on her lips. 

"Hush -- you need rest," Narcissa whispers, moving her hand to cup her cheek. 

She doesn’t object, simply enjoying the warmth from Narcissa’s palm. Time seems to stop again -- a less painful experience this time -- as they bask in the peace that has finally graced them.

"Hermione," she can feel the calluses on the thumb that strokes her cheek. "I know you think you don't deserve happiness." 

Narcissa shakes her head to stop Hermione from protesting.

"But you do," Narcissa's soft tone doing nothing to diminish how much she believes it. "You deserve happiness, and so much more. And right now, my sweet darling, I want to give you the world."

"There is only one thing I can't do, however.

“I can’t want it for you.” 

“So when you’re ready,” soft lips descend on her forehead, her cheek, and her lips, “you know where to owl me.” 

* * *

It starts to drizzle. She tightens the scarf around her neck, crossing the street and into the restaurant. 

“The same table, ma’am?” The hostess asks in a tone that’s more cheerful than usual. She returns the greeting and follows her to the corner -- 

“Hi.” She is greeted with a shy little wave, and a smile that could light up the entire room. 

“Hello, Hermione.”

"I uhm -- I never realised how close this restaurant was from St Mungo's." 

"I hear it's going well," She was always confident in Andi's ability to refer the right mind healer to match the needs of a witch.

"Anyway," Hermione clears her throat. "My date has just walked out, and this meal is already paid for. Would you like to join me?” 

She raises an eyebrow, a smirk making its way to her face. “Is there any chance that I could pick for us, or has the food been ordered?”

“Oh, everything’s been taken care of,” Hermione responds playfully. “In fact, the rolls are especially tempting tonight. If you don't mind?” 

“Of course not, Miss Granger,” she responds smoothly, picking up the butter knife. “I am, however, curious: who has dared to walk out on our esteemed war heroine?” 

“Well Madam Black, if you must know," Hermione says, "similar to the wizard who walked out on you before, he’s also a blond, only younger.

"Goes by the name Draco." 

_Ends_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first completed Cissamione fic, and what a ride! Thank you for sticking with it thus far! If you like, leave a note and let me know what you think!


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